


Love and War

by aimeejessica



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, The Blitz, Timothy Becomes a Hero, War, World War II, like hella slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimeejessica/pseuds/aimeejessica
Summary: On the 3rd of September 1939, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain declares war on Germany. A little more than a year later, the Luftwaffe take to London skies, raining hell on the population. The East End is hit the hardest.What if Call the Midwife was set during World War II. The character's we've come to know and love, submitted to the worst time of their lives. Constant barrage of bombers, infernos as hot as Hell, our Doctor and nurses working around the clock to help where they can, and at some point, a heroic Timothy Turner.AU ish.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 40
Kudos: 26





	1. Britain Declares War

**11:00am  
Sunday, 3rd September, 1939**

‘ _I am speaking to you, from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning, the British ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note, stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock, that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us._

_I have to tell you now, that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently, this country is at war with Germany._

_You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me, that all my long struggle to win peace, has failed. Yet, I cannot believe that there is anything more, or anything different, that I could have done and that would have been more successful. Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland. But Hitler would not have it._

_He had evidently made up his mind to attack Poland whatever happened, and although he now says he put forward reasonable proposals which were rejected by the Poles, that is not a true statement. The proposals were never shown to the Poles, nor to us, and though they announced in the German broadcast on Thursday night, Hitler did not wait to hear comments on them, but ordered his troops to cross the Polish frontier the next morning._

_His action shows convincingly that there is no chance of expecting that this man will ever give up his practice of using force to gain his will. He can only be stopped by force._

_We have a clear conscience. We have done all that any country could do to establish peace. But the situation in which no word given by Germany’s ruler could be trusted, and no people or country could feel itself safe, had become intolerable. And now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will all play your part with calmness and courage.’_

* * *

Apprehension ricocheted through the silent hallways at the Nonnatus House convent. It seemed to embody the inhabitants as they made an attempt to fulfil their duties as if they were none the wiser. However, there was no way in shaking the feeling after they had gathered as one, crowding the small radio unit, awaiting Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s broadcast regarding the brewing turmoil across the English Channel.

“War?” one of the women questioned, cutting the thick air that had settled in the dining room. “We’ve barely recovered from the last,”

Her statement received nods around the room. The occupiers of Nonnatus House were Nun’s and civilians, each having been trained in nursing and midwifery. These women were, at the very least, able to provide support to the military in their nursing capacity as they had done with The Great War. The head Sister of the convent, Sister Julienne witnessed the horrors of The Great War first hand, as had her fellow Sisters.

Her calling had initially been to God however, in times of war, she was wholly ready to leave the religious life to help where she felt she was needed. This was not the case, and she and her Sister’s, as sworn Nun’s, had enrolled in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service the year same year the war broke out. She had been stationed on HMHS Gloucester Castle, serving until the ship had been torpedoed by a German U-boat in 1917. As the announcement of this new war echoed in her head, she was taken back to The Great War, the horrific injuries she had witnessed still burnt into her mind.

“If you will excuse me,” Sister Julienne had politely excused herself from the gathering, retreating to the comfort of the chapel that, only hours prior, had encompassed the women in the blanket of prayer.

Nurse Franklin, ever the optimist, piped up in an attempt to dissolve the depressive mood that had befallen the room. She announced that she was off to make tea, and to hunt the small kitchen for any sign of cake. This had elicited weak smiles from her civilian companions, but the Nun’s remained blank. The youngest of the Nun’s, her upswept framed glasses, caught the light as she glanced around the room, trying to ascertain the individual moods in the room.

She had only been a young girl when the Great War had erupted, sending the world into chaos. She had lost her oldest brother and her father in the war, which left her an orphan. She tried to dissimulate the haunting memory of her childhood before it became overwhelming; sending a silent prayer to the Almighty for some semblance of strength.

The Sister’s knew that Sister Bernadette had been left at the Mother House in Chichester at the age of 5, with no living relatives; she had become an orphan in their care. Her mother had died only two years before the outbreak of war, and her father had made the tough decision to leave his only daughter behind in the home of one of their family friends. It had only meant to be temporary, until he had returned, however, that day never came.

Nurse Franklin, kit in her light blue nursing dress, returned with a tray set with tea and a plate of Arrowroot biscuits, the dress kissing at her knees as placed the tray on the dining room table. She departed only for a moment, before returning with adequate china.

“Forgive me,” Sister Bernadette spoke, her Scottish lilt seeming to reverberate around the silent room. “I feel I am called to the chapel.”

She carefully pushed back the chair on which she sat, making sure to not catch her heavy, dark habit underneath the chair legs, and rose, excusing herself from the company of her colleagues. As a sign of good manners, she returned the chair under the table and quietly departed the room, following the eerie corridors until she met her sanctuary.

Attending the chapel was not out of the ordinary for the young woman, it was her duty to attend multiple times a day, however, she felt a calling and wondered if she would be spending more of her time in muted prayer and thought.

The chapel was darkened, save for the slivers of light that pierced through the stained glass windows. Flecks of dust hung in the air, occasionally catching her eye as they reflected the sparse amounts of light, and swirled behind her as she disturbed the still atmosphere. Taking a knee in front of the pulpit, she looked up to the cross ahead of her and wordlessly said a prayer.

Her mind was an inferno. Her past, although many years ago now, flashed vividly before her eyes causing her inability to stop the tears that welled behind her specs, threatening to spill over and stain her cheeks. She rose from her knee, striking a match and lighting a candle, the glow giving her some comfort as her prayer had been received.

Tucking the heavy fabric of her habit smoothly across her backside, she took a seat at the front of the chapel. She remembered the day her brother had told her that he was going to serve, and although only four at the time, she recalled him taking her hand and going for a short walk around their property, mindless chattered exchanged between the two. Her father had been disappointed when he had found out he had enlisted, knowing well that he was only a boy of fifteen. What Sister Bernadette hadn’t realised at the time was that he had runaway, pretending to be of an age suitable to fight for King and for country. Instead of contacting the authorities, he had donned his uniform from the Boer War and had set out to bring the young lad home.

Instead, neither of them returned.

* * *

Doctor Turner was Poplar’s only serving general practitioner so had been caught up at a house call when the Prime Minister’s declaration of war had been broadcast. Unfortunately, Poplar was an impoverished borough, meaning that radio devices were scarce in civilian homes. It wasn’t until his walk back to the surgery that he had seen a boy, no older than his own son, dressed in sandwich boards emblazoned with the latest headline.

**BRITAIN DECLARES WAR**

With one hand carrying his briefcase, he used his free hand to scrub over his face as if, by some miracle, as his hand passed over his eyes, the headline would read different. It was only then that he noticed the streets were busier than usual, emotion running high through the population. He paid attention to the small pubs that had begun to overflow with men, trying to get a pint before they would choose to leave their homes, or eventually were unwillingly dragged away from them. The men that hadn’t made it into their choice of pub, had been seen returning to work, others making the journey home and the last few, he observed, were hidden down alleyways, stealing a chance with a woman before he lost it. Children continued to play in the streets, blissfully ignorant to what the news would bring for their futures, while mothers watched from the kerbs, handkerchiefs in hand, dabbing at the tears in their eyes.

Doctor Turner shook his head, trying to erase the gloom of the morning news. He had a job to do and what good was it if he were to act sour to it. From what he had overheard from his walk through the overcrowded streets was that Hitler had forced Britain’s hand, unwilling to agree to terms that had been laid out for them. He knew he needed to contact Sister Julienne at Nonnatus House and form a plan of action, knowing all too well that some of the residents would make the choice to serve His Majesty’s Army, or they would be left to join the Red Cross. Before commencing any more work, he knew his priority was Timothy.

Timothy was glad to see his father and ran across the cemented school yard and into his safe, and loving arms. “Dad! You’re on time!”

Doctor Turner gave him a weak smile, trying to hide the sadness behind it. The truth was, he was so dedicated to his work, that he struggled to make time for his son and Timothy’s statement hit him like a sucker punch to the stomach. “I had to be, school finished early,”

Timothy pulled out of his father’s embrace and instead grabbed a hold of the aged hand that lacked a briefcase. He dragged his father in the direction of their small flat, wanting to ask a million questions about the news that had broken. In his excitement, he tripped several times on the uneven cobbles of the street, silently thankful that he continued to hold his father’s hand.

Doctor Turner smiled at his boy. To him, the news of war seemed to be play-pretend with his school friends, running around with sticks, brandishing them as rifles, winning medals for being strong and brave, and playing with toy tanks or aircraft. Timothy was blissfully unaware of the horrific realities of war, and his father hoped it would stay that way for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that WWII would have happened earlier than when Sister Bernadette joined Nonnatus House, taken her vows and become a nurse/midwife (around 1947 is when she would have joined). So I guess this is slightly AU, but only by about 17 years (with CtM season 1 set in 1957).
> 
> I have spent literal hours researching the Blitz, the events leading up to it, have read witness accounts, listened to old radio broadcasts and even have a map of the East End which was surveyed in 1938 and revised in 1949. I want this to be as accurate as possible.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.


	2. False Alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @MiyuNamikaze for reading over the majority of this chapter for her thoughts <3 She isn't part of the Call the Midwife fandom, but her opinions helped me. Blesssss you Jeeeeffffff <3

**Sunday 3 rd September, 1939**

**Noon**

“Dad, why are we going this way?” Timothy questioned as his father lead him south down Ida Street, towards the East India Docks. The boy knew this route would lead them to Nonnatus House, having walked it with Doctor Turner many times in the past.

The pair took a left onto Grundy Street, the roads now quieter than they were only half an hour earlier. Doctor Turner had heard pieces of information come through as they walked past businesses who were closing their doors; gatherings in public had now been made to cease, aside from visiting church on Sunday’s, and places of entertainment were to close with immediate effect. The Doctor was now hurrying the boy along, trying to get them to the convent as fast as possible. “I need to work with the nuns and the nurses, son,” he had told Timothy. “We work as one, and with the announcement of war, we will need to organize ourselves appropriately.” The severity of war had yet to dawn on the boy, but with his father’s increased urgency, he knew there was no way this could be good. “When we arrive at Nonnatus House, I want you to work on your homework in the kitchen, and perhaps you and Sister Monica Joan could hunt down a slice of cake.”

Taking the last turn south to put the pair onto Lodore Street, the grey, behemoth of a building became visible from the top of the street. As they pulled around the corner however, an all too familiar sound to the Doctor rang in his ear. It was a haunting wail of a sound, and it was constant. _Air raid sirens_. At this point, Doctor Turner scooped his child up into his arms, adrenaline kicking in, making the boy seem as light as a feather as he sprinted down the cobbled road towards the sanctuary of the convent.

 _Professionalism and calm be damned,_ he had thought as he barreled through the iron gates, placing his son on the front door step and bashing with a clenched fist in a panic. “It’s Doctor Turner!” he yelled as loudly as he could in the hopes that the occupants hadn’t fully retreated to safety. Within moments to door was flung open by Sister Bernadette, fear evident as her features were more pale than usual.

She was quick to usher the males through the door, urging them to head down to the cellar beneath the convent.

The halls of the building were easy to navigate, however, there was no time today to admire any of the art perfectly hung from the walls or the finery in the interior architecture as everything seemed to blur in the haste the trio made to the underbelly of the building. Doctor Turner skipped steps, dragging his boy in tow as they waited in the small entranceway for the youngest Nun.

“And from the Heavens will rain Hell, casting a blazing inferno across our existence!” the Doctor scrunched his face as he heard Sister Monica Joan’s all too familiar voice sound from the main cellar.

Sister Bernadette had stayed behind for only a moment, ensuring the entrance to their shelter was secure, before making her own way down the stairs and leading them through into the main cellar where the rest of the Nonnatuns were housed.

“Please forgive my lack of formalities,” Sister Bernadette breathed, trying to recover her breath from the rush they had endured. “And my Sister’s,” She gave a small smile towards Timothy, hoping her lightheartedness would take away some of the fear the boy was undoubtedly feeling.

Doctor Turner followed her lead, giving a shaky laugh and appreciating her attempt at calming her son. The boy didn’t fall for it, looking around the other women huddled for security and safety. His eyes were wide, nervous perspiration visible upon his brow and, as the Doctor placed a comforting hand on his smaller frame, felt the boy jump, obviously startled by the contact, which was soon replaced with his shaking in fear.

Timothy looked up at his father, his eyes beginning to water; the reality of war only just becoming apparent. “Wh-what was that, Dad?”

The nurses wordlessly cleared a place for the father and son, allowing them to take a seat on one of the wooden crates that was dressed in cobwebs. Doctor Turner knew it must have lived in this cellar a long time as a creak sounded as he sat himself on it. He gave no care for the coarse material, small splinters digging into his backside, and soon he had Timothy sat on his knee.

The eerie howl of the air raid siren seemed less daunting now that they were underground, but that wouldn’t stop the Doctor being honest with his son. He held the young lad’s gaze, hoping that the boy would see the fear reflected in his own eyes and would help put him at ease. “That is an air raid siren, Tim,”

Timothy broke his father’s eyesight, looking around the mixture of Nun’s and nurses hoping they would back his father up. The women didn’t need to vocalise their agreements as their expressions said everything that was necessary. He may be a young boy, but he wasn’t a fool; they were all scared.

Nurse Lee stood from her on wooden perch across the room, extending her hand to the boy. “Come,” she suggested calmly. “Would you like to explore the cellar?” Doctor Turner’s heart swelled as the nurse offered something to distract the poor boy, and no doubt herself.

The Doctor gave his son a firm hug, giving the boy a nod and allowing him to investigate the dim bunker. He assumed Timothy would find something of interest down here, he was inquisitive and with the mind of a child, he could be quite imaginative too.

With the young boy exploring the underbelly of the convent, poor Nurse Lee in tow, still dressed in uniform, Doctor Turner turned his attention to the remaining women. He noticed Sister Julienne quietly mutter something to Sister Monica Joan, who followed in the footsteps of the nurse and his son.

“This news has been brewing for days, it was only a matter of time before war was announced,” Sister Julienne started now the room was clear of the young and the elderly, Nurse Lee could be filled in later. “The civil defence practicing blackouts across the city, evacuations of children,”

“Quite,” came agreement from Sister Evangelina. “I thought it was over with the last one; apparently not,”

Nurse Franklin and Nurse Miller cast each other worried looks feeling like fish out of water, neither of them being old enough to remember The Great War. The pair cast their gaze to Sister Bernadette, not much older than the pair of them, in the hopes that she too would felt out of place.

The air raid siren had wound down, bringing calm throughout. “It’s stopped,” Doctor Turner noticed, his ears becoming hyperaware as his mind took him back to the last war. “Is there a radio unit down here?”

Each of the women shook their head no. It was Sister Bernadette who piped up, “There is one on the sideboard in the living room,” she told him quietly, never making eye contact with him. “In the panic, I didn’t even think to collect it.”

Doctor Turner sensed a tone of guilt. “Never mind.” He brushed off; he didn’t expect anyone to remember much in the rush. The air raid siren had sounded less than an hour after the announcement of war and tension was already high, the siren amplified the mood. “It seems to have stopped now. I’m going to head upstairs and check all is well. I’ll come back in a few minutes and inform you whether it’s safe to return,”

As the Doctor stood from his crate, Sister Bernadette rose with him, silently pleading that she go with him. Sister Julienne nodded her approval as she herself had a dottery Sister Monica Joan to contend with and she knew Sister Evangelina could come in handy with calming the eldest Nun.

Doctor Turner waited for the young Nun at the bottom of the stairs before ascending to familiar territory, the woman close on his heels.

* * *

**Sunday 3 rd September, 1939**

**Evening**

As the occupants of Nonnatus House would soon find out, the air raid siren was a false alarm, triggered by the overhead allied and British troop planes, taking the first of their military to the front line. With all safe, for now, they had returned to seemingly normal life.

Timothy had ended up joining Sister Monica Joan in the kitchen, as his father had promised, with the accompaniment of Sister Evangelina to keep the pair calm. The nurses had taken to the prep room to complete a full inventory of medicines on hand and equipment they had on hand. They filled the silence of the room with the sound of the radio, listening for any changes so they could relay any important information to Sister Julienne.

Meanwhile, Sister Julienne and Doctor Turner had disappeared to the Nun’s office to discuss what war would mean for them. Sister Julienne had insisted that Sister Bernadette, as her second, would join the meeting. War was an uncertain time for everyone, and in the chance that something were to happen to either Doctor Turner or Sister Julienne, there would need to be a plan in place to ensure the smooth running.

“I am unlikely to serve,” Doctor Turner stated, perched on one of the chairs opposite the large desk. “Being the sole G.P. in Poplar, my services will likely require me to stay. I also completed service in the Great War,”

Sister Julienne nodded, receiving the information he was giving to her; Sister Bernadette, however, had her eyes fixed on him, hearing his story for the very first time. She had known him for nearly a decade, but it was common knowledge to never ask a man about his time during the war, and she understood why.

“Likewise,” Sister Julienne agreed. “I served as a Q.A.* during the war, however, with the number of nurses dwindling, there may be a call for more. It is something we will have to discuss with the nurses as there will be a need in the service, or with the Red Cross. Fortunately the Civil Nursing Reserve was set up early this year, which may put less pressure on us to provide,”

“I may have to adjust the surgery, to accommodate less severe cases. Hospitals are only going to fill with wounded returning from today onwards. There may be leniency as I can staff the surgery with your own.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw, the 5 o’clock shadow had developed, scratching at his palm.

Sister Julienne was mulling over his words for a moment, quickly developing a plan. “There is far more space here, why not transfer your equipment and files here. Timothy and yourself are more than welcome to stay with us,” she suggested.

Sister Bernadette seemingly perked up at this idea, joining the conversation. “I’m certain Fred would be more than happy to assist, it also gives security for you to know someone can be with Timothy instead of tearing yourself between your home and the surgery.”

Doctor Turner looked at the young woman, seeing Sister Julienne nodding in his peripherals. “You make a valid point, however I was looking into evacuating him back to Liverpool to be with his grandmother.”

“It is something to think about, then,” Sister Julienne concluded, signaling that the time for talk would have to recommence at another time. “Compline is upon us, and we have yet to dine,” The three stood in agreement, ready to eat and retire from the stressful day, but they were disturbed by an urgent knock. “Enter,”

“I am truly sorry to disturb you, Sister Julienne,” Nurse Miller, her petite frame slipping through the doorway and into the darkening office. “There has been an announcement come through,”

“Please continue,”

“The government has announced The National Service Act, specific to the armed forces, has passed through parliament. As of today every man between the ages of eighteen and fourty-one can be conscripted,”

The three women looked at Doctor Turner, who suddenly felt as though his world was crumbling around him. “Contact Fred, inform him tomorrow we will begin shifting equipment from the surgery to Nonnatus House. If I am drafted, I know you will ensure Poplar has access to medical care.” He could feel their eyes trained on him, and it shook his nerves to the core.

He didn’t want to serve ever again, and now, he may not have a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Q.A. = this was an informal name given to the member's of the Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service (QAIMNS). This was established in 1902 by Royal Warrant and named after Queen Alexandra who became their president. In 1949 they became a corps in the British Army and was renamed Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corps, which is still active today.
> 
> Fun fact, the air raid siren did sound, only 15-20 minutes after Neville Chamberlain's radio broadcast. It was legitimately triggered by allied aircraft - which were seen flying all over London the same day.
> 
> The inspiration for the cellar came from a witness account about sheltering with Nuns in Dominican Convent in London.
> 
> For ages of the characters, I used canon ages (most are approximate ages as well, and after working it back, Sister B would have been about 4-5 at the start of WWI, the nurses born during WWI)
> 
> Lordore Street is the actual street name of where Nonnatus House sits. (In the show they had it on Layland Street, but for this I've gone with the actual location)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter. I'm hoping as the drama picks up, my chapters will eventually become longer :)  
> We love a review. <3


	3. Prior Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, special thanks to @MiyuNamikaze for reading over this chapter and spotting some inconsistencies and errors. Much love to you, my bro <3  
> (I edited my last chapter to say my thanks - this chick isn't even part of the CtM fandom and yet here she is, reading over me being fandom TRASH)

**Monday 4 th September, 1939**

First light was yet to bare itself across a sleepy England, the reality of the day prior not having completely set in, Doctor Turner busied himself in the kitchen, finding the necessary items to have a strong, dark brew to start his day. He had risen about an hour after the Nun’s, listening to the end of their first office’s echo through empty hallways.

He sat at the table; head rested in hand, lazily stirring his coffee, allowing the aroma to awaken his dazed senses. In front of him lay the morning newspaper, the headline declaring the authenticity of yesterday’s announcement, his eyes reading over the dark print. He couldn’t quite believe he would live through another war, and with the uncertainty of his draft, his mind began to race.

“Oh, good morning Doctor Turner,”

His body gave a jolt as his mind was quickly pulled into reality as a familiar, accented voice came from the kitchen entrance. He tore his eyes away from the text he had read over and over to look at the young nun. Half expecting her to still be in her prayer veil, he was surprised to see her usual white wimple.

“You startled me,” he declared, gesturing for her to join him for tea. “Good morning, Sister.”

She accepted his gesture, taking the seat one away from him. Her eyes flicked over the newspaper on the table as he rose to prepare her own beverage. “I still can’t quite believe it,” she stated quietly. “I was only young during the last war; it shaped me into who I am today.”

Sister Bernadette took the paper, unfolding it and allowing the headline to show in all its glory. Running her hands across the page, she wondered why on earth she had even opened up to her colleague the way she had.

He hummed at her words. “I think it did for everyone involved.” The room quickly fell back into silence, the only sounds being of the tea he currently poured for the woman. “It’s not an experience I ever wanted to live nor do I ever want to live again,” he admitted. “Yet here we are.”

“Quite,” she agreed, graciously accepting the cup he now offered her. “Thank you,”

Neither of them could tell how long they sat, wordlessly reliving their own past war experiences, before Doctor Turner broke the quiet. “I’m planning on chatting with Fred as soon as I can. I’d like to get the surgery moved here as quickly as possible. I have hopes that I won’t be drafted; however, one can’t be too sure. With a skill set like mine, I can be certain that I’m desirable,”

Sister Bernadette wouldn’t accept that. As he had mentioned to her and Sister Julienne the night before, he was the only doctor in Poplar. She silently sent up a prayer, hoping that he would not be conscripted, and she sent a second one for Timothy’s safe evacuation to the Doctor’s hometown.

“Please let me know if I can be of any assistance. Sister Julienne will be particularly busy here, so it should only be right for me to help. Even if it means sorting that pile of papers you consider to be filing.”

He smiled; Her cheap shot at his inability to properly store and organise his paperwork bringing some light heartedness to the already sullen mood of the day. “I’d appreciate all the help I can get,” he admitted.

* * *

Sister Bernadette had excused herself from daily duty, speaking to Sister Julienne about the plan herself and Doctor Turner had set for themselves that morning. Her older Sister had fully supported the notion, dividing Sister Bernadette’s duties amongst the other Nonnatun’s; she had also prayed for the younger Nun, wishing for a safe and speedy return. Packing a bag and setting it on the back of her bicycle, she made the journey across Poplar to Doctor Turner’s surgery.

So here she stood, in front of the surgery that she had become familiar with over the years. Doctor Turner had entrusted her with his key so she could allow herself access to the building to begin the tedious filing task ahead of her. With the appropriate key, she had granted herself access to the building, leaving the door unlocked behind her knowing that Fred Buckle and the Doctor wouldn’t be too far behind her.

The first task she decided to attend to, was organising the mass amounts of paperwork left around the Doctor’s office. Entering the room, she was greeted by the smell of stale cigarettes, antiseptic and the feint smell of cologne. Taking the seat behind his desk, she placed her bag at her foot and made an attempt to ignore the white clinical coat that hung off the back. She cleared a spot on the desk for her to pull out a pad of paper and a pencil.

She took the first twenty-five pages of the pad, neatly writing the alphabet on each page, and set out to work.

‘ _Last name, given name, date of birth, date of registration and address,’_ she repeated in her mind as she began organising the files. To her left, she had stacked the files that did not belong in a bookshelf, or a filing drawer; and to her right, she began to stack files she had recorded. As the pile on the right grew bigger, she knew she would need more room, and she prayed that Fred and Doctor Turner wouldn’t be too much longer as she was now in need of boxes to save her from messing up the meticulous filing work she was doing.

Leaning back in his chair, she extended her limbs, groaning in relief at the instant satisfaction a stretch could bring after being cramped in one position for too long. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she realised she had been working away for the best part of two hours, and the men were still nowhere in sight.

Allowing herself a break, she took note now of the two small picture frames on his desk. One contained a lovely photo of his son, only a couple of years earlier on his first day of school. The boy in the image beamed back at the Nun, excitement written all over his face. The uniform neat and pressed; the pride father, _mother_ and son had evident in the perfect image.

The second frame contained a photo from Doctor Turner’s wedding day. The wedding had taken place before she had met the Doctor, however, when she joined the Order, she had, had the pleasure of meeting his late wife on multiple occasions. The newlyweds looked elated as she continued to stare at the image, her eyes tracing over a younger version of him. Scolding herself, she tore her eyes away.

Marianne Turner had passed away only two short years ago, leaving the male Turner’s visibly depressed. Sister Bernadette said a silent prayer over the photo, hoping that Marianne had been welcomed into God’s home with open arms; and a prayer for the Doctor and his son, for strength and peace.

Collecting the two picture frames, Sister Bernadette tucked them into the bag by her side. With Doctor Turner and Fred finally arriving, she was sure the Doctor would forget about the two most meaningful items to him. She would return them to his possession later that evening.

“Good morning, Sister,” Fred greeted as he stepped into the office. “I see you’ve been hard at it this morning,” His eyes glancing around the room which was no longer littered in files, but had them stacked neatly.

“Good morning, Mr Buckle,” ever professional. “Thank you for aiding Doctor Turner with this task,”

“Oh, it’s not a worry. At least he will have someone to look after him for the duration of the war,”

Sister Bernadette’s cheeks flushed a hue of red at the simple sentence, she knew Fred was talking about the Nun’s and the nurses, however, Sister Bernadette couldn’t help her mind wandering at the possible implication. _‘At least he will have someone to look after him’_. She erased the beginning of a daydream where it was just her looking after the Doctor, more pressing tasks to attend to than an unwarranted fantasy.

“Did you manage to obtain any boxes?” She asked, wanting to change the subject to a more professional tone as quickly as she could.

“Doctor Turner is bringing ‘em in as we speak,” Fred smiled at her.

Sister Bernadette’s eyes caught sight of movement behind Fred and sure enough, Doctor Turner pops through the doorway and into the office to join his colleagues, hands occupied with the boxes he had brought with him. Placing them on the ground in front of the desk, he took in the sight before him. She was sitting at his desk, neat piles surrounding her.

The doctor sent a smile towards the Nun, “Good morning, Sister,”

She returned the smile. “Good morning again, Doctor.” She removed herself from her spot on his chair, feeling somewhat embarrassed to be caught in his spot and retrieved the boxes he had brought in for her. “I’ll start packing these away. Please, if I get in your way let me know so I can vacate,”

Doctor Turner and Fred shared a laugh and it was Fred who spoke. “Sister, your work is more important than ours. Please _us_ know if we get in _your_ way,”

* * *

As the sun began to dip below the skyline of London’s buildings, an eerie shadow was cast through the all but empty surgery. The last slivers of light reflecting off dust particles hanging in the air, being disturbed as Fred and Doctor Turner returned to the surgery for the final time.

Sister Bernadette had finished organising the Doctor’s filing system, or lack thereof, and the boxes she had filled were now the last items to be transported back to the convent.

The men picked up the heavier of the boxes, leaving the last, half-filled box for the Nun to take. She retrieved her bag, careful to not disturb the frames residing within, and placed it in her own box and followed the men to Frank’s van. The trio had easily loaded the last of the items, and her bicycle, into the back of the van.

The drive across Poplar was filled with silence, each lost in thought with the day’s activities. Sister Bernadette was particularly focussed on the doctor who sat behind her. He had insisted that she ride up front with Fred in the more comfortable position. She reminded herself of her vow of poverty, and how it shouldn’t have mattered whether she sat up front, in the leather bound chair, or whether she sat on the cold wooden bench in the back of the van, using her petite frame to hold the boxes as they travelled over uneven roads.

She wondered when Doctor Turner planned to evacuate Timothy; the poor boy wouldn’t be old enough to fully comprehend why he was being evacuated when there posed no immediate danger. However, Sister Bernadette had seen with her own eyes, leading up to the announcement yesterday morning, that people had already begun evacuating their children from hotspots.

Reports would come in from the front, even before Great Britain had declared war. Hitler was using his unrelenting forces to try and cripple nations, focussing attacks on air supports and ports. This would prevent imports and exports, running nation’s funds dry; and attacking air supports would leave nations vulnerable to aerial attack from the _Luftwaffe_.

Sister Bernadette wondered how safe Liverpool would be for the Doctor’s young son. She knew that, although on the north-west coast, Liverpool boasted the second largest port in the country. If Hitler planned to assault Britain, he would start with London before undoubtedly moving on to Liverpool – that is, if his air forces could make the journey further west.

She inwardly scolded herself. It wasn’t her place to question the judgement of Timothy’s father, she knew he was only doing what was best for his son. Even then, Liverpool may have only been a meeting place for Timothy and his grandmother, before they moved somewhere off the coast to ride out the rest of the war.

Sister Bernadette was brought back to reality as the breaks of Fred’s truck let out a squeak. He had pulled up in front of the stone and wrought iron fencing surrounding the convent. She had proceeded to let herself out of the vehicle but somehow Doctor Turner had managed to launch himself out the back of the van, and make his way to the passenger door to open it for her in a chivalrous manner.

“Thank you, Doctor,”

The pair, and Frank, had circled to the rear of the vehicle to unload the last of the contents, bicycle included. Sister Bernadette had opened the gate to allow the men access, leaving the boxes on the doorstep so they could send Frank off. They each wished him the best of luck for the unpredictable future and Sister Bernadette had made mention that she would pray for him at that evening’s compline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little look at things from Sister B's side.  
> Another chapter building up info, and a little exploration into some feels.  
> Still burning slowly though ;)
> 
> Feedback is always greatly appreciated.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read :D


	4. Love, Timothy

**Friday 29 th September, 1939**

An announcement had been made four days after the declaration of war, that the passing of the National Registration Act had commenced. The broadcast of war seemed like a lifetime ago, when in reality it had only been a few short weeks.

With the morning post, registration papers had come. Each occupant having to fill one out to receive their identity card. It was only after the forms had been distributed, that Doctor Turner sat down with his son to fill out their own.

They had privately spoken to his son on that cool, autumn morning. He had been concise about the boy’s departure, indulging him only that he would be sent to Liverpool to ride out the war with his late mother’s, mother. Timothy hadn’t taken kindly to the news his father had broken, he wanted to stay in Poplar with his father and the Nuns and nurses.

The boy had run from his father, taking himself to the little garden hidden at the back of Nonnatus House to try and comprehend what it meant to be evacuated. He had sat himself on the narrow dirt path that divided the garden, his legs crossed beneath him and his head hung low. Timothy understood that war bought death, but with evacuation being decided for him, he didn’t realise it would find its way across the channel and onto their own front doorstep.

What Timothy couldn’t understand was why was he the only one to be evacuated. He tugged at individual blades of grass, scrunching them in his hands before releasing and allowing them to succumb to gravity as his mind swallowed him from reality.

If he were to be evacuated, why not his father? Why not any of these women who spent their days tending to the pregnant and ill? He knew that his father was doing it for his safety, but his safety wasn’t the only priority; that much he was certain.

“Timothy,”

The young boy was roused from his thoughts by the accented call of his name. He looked to the small Nun that had made her way to the garden and now stood above him.

He smiled at her sadly. “Hello, Sister Bernadette,” he greeted politely. “Are you here to return me to my father?” His gaze returned to the patch of grass he had been tearing at.

She returned his sad smile with one of her own. “No,” was her honest response. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Timothy only nodded his reply, not watching as the woman arranged her habit so she could seat herself next to him, mimicking his position on the little path. Her head was turned in his direction, he eyes attempting to read the boy.

“You know,” she started, bowing her head and running her fingers over the grass beneath them. “I was a little younger than you when the Great War commenced.”

Timothy piqued at the Nun’s admission. “Were you evacuated too?”

“No, there was no need,” She wanted to sympathise with him and tell him that she had been, but that would be a falsehood. “I was still living in Scotland, and the only threat that existed to us was of disease. Men returning from the front brought back Spanish Influenza and it ran rampant across Scotland.”

“Oh,” Timothy was let down, hoping that Sister Bernadette would be able to understand how he felt. “I don’t want to go to Liverpool. I do miss Granny Parker, but if I’m being moved because of my safety, why not everyone else?”

“Your father has a duty to his patients,” she tried to reason with the boy in a manner he would understand. “War has no place in a child’s life, Timothy. How do you think your Granny Parker must be feeling, knowing you are still in London when countless others have already been evacuated?”

Timothy hadn’t considered that and his little brow furrowed as he tried to imagine how his grandmother felt. “She will be worrying,”

Sister Bernadette returning her gaze to the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder in the hopes to comfort him. “Quite,” she agreed. “Sometimes we have to sacrifice our own happiness to carry out the tasks required of us,” The words were not meant to be spoken aloud, instead they were her own private thoughts that seemed to resonate with the boy.

“What if something happens to my dad?” He met her gaze, his eyes glassing over; the innocence of a child, the warmth of the unconditional love of his father and the uncertainty of the future reflecting back at the Nun.

“I will look after him,” She told the boy, sending a quick prayer to God on the Turner’s behalf. With her hand still on his shoulder, she dragged the boy into her side, giving him a warm embrace to help settle him. Placing a kiss on the top of his head, she whispered, “I promise.”

* * *

**Sunday 1 st October, 1939**

An enumerator had knocked on the door to Nonnatus House before the church service that morning, in his hands was the envelope that contained the Nonnatun’s and the Turner’s identity cards. He had ensured that each document was given to the correct person, marking off the address on his papers before wishing the occupants well and moving on to the next dwelling.

Doctor Turner had spoken to Sister Julienne, never being one for religion, and decided that now would be the best time to slip out with Timothy and board him on a train for Liverpool. The identity card, being a living document, could be updated as needed and with his son now carrying his own, he had peace of mind sending him to be with his grandmother.

He had quietly collected Timothy, not wanting to disturb the morning service, and retrieved the tatty, brown suitcase he had packed for the boy weeks earlier. He had slipped it underneath his bed, not wanting the poor boy to fret over the impending departure.

“Don’t forget Cuthbert, Tim,” he had told the boy, placing a gentle hand on his back and giving him a slight nudge in the direction of his room.

Timothy returned with the stuffed toy, but instead of placing it into the suitcase that his father had opened for him, he ran down the hall and stopped short of the front door, placing the animal onto the wooden sideboard.

He knew there was a pencil and note book on the sideboard and he busied himself writing a small note. He attempted cursive that he had been learning at school, but pretty soon after, gave up and settled for his normal childish scrawl.

_‘Sister Bernadette,_

_This is Cuthbert. I am going to Liverpool now, but I want to leave him behind to keep you safe._

_Love Timothy.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little chapter today to kinda get a little of the history and to send Timothy off to, hopefully, safety.
> 
> I'm hoping that things start heating up in my next chapter.
> 
> Also, love me a little bit of Sister B/Tim <3 it's quite adorable


	5. Is This God's Punishment?

**December, 1939**

_Life in London seemed like business as usual. Petrol had become rationed and identity cards were carried; however, schools were starting to reopen as children returned to the capital after spending weeks to months away for, what seemed like, no good reason; and blackouts had become routine, practiced enough and now carried out as habit._

_Nonnatus House, although with the addition of Doctor Turner’s surgery, remained unchanged. The Nuns and nurses still carried out their daily district rounds, cycling the streets to get from patient to patient; babies were still delivered, although most would be just the mother as the father’s had been called up for service; and a weekly clinic still took place, although at the convent instead of at the Parish Hall._

_The radio at Nonnatus House seemed to be on for every twenty-four hours of the day, even the Nun’s had granted leniency for it to continue broadcasting during the Great Silence. The newspaper delivered each morning would give them updates they would miss as they slept, unless the on-call nurse relayed information as soon as the first person had awoken._

_The Phoney wars had begun, but with little military action, and more about creating elaborate plans for multiple large-scale operations to cripple the German war effort. Seemingly, the biggest news to reach British shores had been a month ago, when a report by the head of the German Luftwaffe intelligence was released. “Of all Germany’s possible enemies, Britain is the most dangerous. The key is to paralyse British trade.”_

_This had instilled fear in the British population, but in the month since the news of the report, nothing had come to fruition. The Royal Navy’s home fleet giving a sense of security to the British as they had the dominant sea-faring force._

* * *

**December 25 th, 1939**

Doctor Turner scrubbed his hand over his face, making a weak attempt to wake himself up. The warm cocoon he was wrapped in would have to be shed and on such a cold, winter morning he could think of nothing worse.

Instead, he allowed himself time to embrace the warmth and think about Timothy who was some two-hundred and fifty miles north, spending his first Christmas without his father. He wondered if his son had excitedly woken his grandmother to see if Santa Claus had visited and left him presents.

Doctor Turner smiled at the mental image of his son on a Christmas morning. The boy, every year since he could walk, would be up at the crack of dawn waking his mother and father to drag them to their living room. His face quickly fell as he remembered there was a diminished enthusiasm in the years following his mother’s death; and Doctor Turner lay here wondering if the boy had even made it out of bed. Perhaps the boy sought more comfort in the nest of his warmth like his father did now.

He had sent card two Christmas cards to his mother-in-law’s address; one for her and one for his son. In each he’d tucked a few pounds instead of attempting to ship off a present, hoping that they would be received in time for them to be opened this morning.

He missed Timothy dearly.

Rolling to his side, Doctor Turner reached to the nightstand, his bare arm erupting in goosepimples as the chill in the air attached itself to the warm flesh. Picking up his wrist watch, he looked at the face of the small item and decided it was probably best if he got himself out of bed and greeted the day.

At the other end of the convent, Sister Bernadette had risen and attended Lauds with her Sisters, but instead of joining the women in having a quiet cup of tea before the nurses soon joined them, she had told them that she needed a moment in solitude; she had headed to her chambers and indulged herself in a private moment.

The time she had spent with Timothy before he had been evacuated to Liverpool had seemingly given her purpose. The boy was now without a mother and in her eyes, it seems as though he had taken to her as that figure. With this, she had ended up spending more time with the boy’s father than what could be considered appropriate for a woman of her position.

Now, isolated from the world, away from prying eyes or the horrors happening just over the Channel, she sat on the edge of her bed, allowing her eyes to quickly glance around her plain room before reaching under her pillow and pulling out the stuffed toy Timothy had left her.

She smiled as she looked over the bear. It was a little worse for wear, patches in the light-brown fur having been worn away to the underlying fabric, the black stitching of the face having faded and the stuffing coming out in tufts in a little tear in the bear’s neck. She could fix that, but she decided against it. The bear was well loved, and she intended to keep it in the same condition in which she had received it. She would keep it safe until its owner returned.

She felt childlike for doing so, but she pulled the bear to eye height and stared at it. She tilted the toy’s head towards her own, inhaling the scent that was left on it. It smelt like the Turner’s. Smiling, she the clutched the bear to her chest, holding it as close as she physically could before returning it to its new home under her pillow. Satisfied, she proceeded to face the day.

Her hand, cupping the doorknob, rotated it enough to be able to pull herself from solitude and into the shared hallway of the convent. As she exited the room in full, she ended up standing in the path of an unsuspecting doctor, his body colliding into hers.

She lost her footing, falling to the hard floor on impact. With her glasses misplaced, she was unaware of the cut the cross she wore around her neck had made on her palm.

“Forgive me, Sister,” his voiced echoed in her head. “Are you alright?”

“The fault is mine, Doctor. I should be more careful departing my chambers,” she felt heat rise to her cheeks, a light pink gracing the usual milk-white flesh. She felt the warmth of his body near hers as she realised he had dropped into a crouch to help her retrieve her specs. He found the frames before she, and he returned them to her, extending his hand in the process to help her from the ground.

She ignored the aid and quickly replaced her glasses. Using her hand on her knee as support, she rose to her feet, immediately feeling the sticky peel of her palm from the heavy wool of her habit. On quick inspection of her palm, she noticed the blood stain on her flesh and the scarlet fluid still trickling from the wound.

“You’ve hurt your hand,” Doctor Turner observed. There was a fleeting moment where he considered reaching out and taking her hand to inspect the wound but he had decided against it; it would be improper.

“Well, I’m sure there is no need to amputate,” Sister Bernadette scolded herself at the words that tumbled out of her mouth. She meant it in a light-hearted jest, but the paling of Doctor Turner’s face confirmed there was harm done.

With the war raging on the mainland, the topic of amputation had sent Doctor Turner’s mind back nearly twenty years prior where he had served on the front line as a doctor. The small bubble that the pair had found themselves caught in burst, allowing the harsh realities of life to creep back in.

“I – I,” Sister Bernadette stammered, finding herself ignoring the blood, now leaving a crimson path down her hand and dripping onto the floor. “That was in poor taste, Doctor. Forgive me,”

Doctor Turner shook his head. His hair lacked brylcreem, and his fringe danced across his forehead at the movement. “You meant no harm. Here, let me have a look,” he changed the subject quickly in an attempt to discourage the war neurosis reappearing.

Sister Bernadette offered no resistance as he took her hand, rotating the appendage to allow himself a closer inspection of the wound. It still oozed blood and he didn’t have anything sanitary with him to clean the mess up, his fingers now coated in the sticky fluid that leaked from her.

“My midwifery bag is in my room,” she offered, watching how the lines in his forehead became more pronounced as he thought about how best to deal with the injury. She pulled her hand from his grasp, reopening the door behind her and allowing the pair access.

She waited by the door, shutting it behind him.

Doctor Turner stood in the middle of the room, quickly glancing around the bland room. Furnished with only necessities and lacking a personal touch, he shouldn’t have found himself as surprised as he did. The sound of her shuffling behind him and bringing the lone, wooden chair next to her bed, rousing him from his thoughts.

She picked up the heavy, leather case and sat it on the end of her bed. She soon sat perched in the middle of the bed after gesturing to Doctor Turner to take the chair.

He sat angled, opening the case, finding antiseptic, gauze and a kidney dish was his first priority. She read his mind, pointing out the locations of the items. He let out a breathy scoff, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. _Of course, her bag is as meticulous as her work._

Turning to the Nun, he became hyperaware that their knees brushed and the only way he would be able to sit facing her directly, without their limbs touching, would be to have her knees nestle between his open legs. He gulped.

Sister Bernadette’s heart raced and there was no amount of prayer she could commit to, to settle the rapidly palpitating muscle. A small perspiration formed on her brow, fortunately under her white starched cap and wimple. When her eyes caught sight of the vertical movement of the laryngeal prominence on his neck, she knew she wasn’t alone in the nervousness of the situation.

Clearing his throat, Doctor Turner went to work. Taking her hand and resting it on his now covered knee, holding it in place with his right hand. Taking a pair of tweezers, he soaked the gauze in antiseptic before allowing the fabric to clean the area of the wound.

She let out a hiss of discomfort as the fluid from the gauze seeped its way into the cut. She watched as his hand that held hers, unconsciously ran his thumb along her fingers as if to sooth her.

“This is deep,” he was talking to himself. “What did you fall on?”

She shook her head in response. “I’m not sure,” there was nothing in the hallway that would have been sharp enough to puncture her hand. She looked down, noticing a red spot on her cross. Holding it up to him, she stated. “I believe this was the culprit,”

He looked at the item she held, still affixed around her neck with black cord. “That would do it,” he mused. “I’m afraid to say this could do with a stitch or two,” he admitted. “Could you hold pressure on the wound?”

She did as he asked as he returned to her bag, listening to her direction as he found the necessary items to suture the cut on her palm. In a matter of moments, he had expertly used the curved forceps to weave the silk threaded needle through the wound, tie it off and complete another suture.

Finishing his work with a swab of iodine and a dressing, he met her gaze. “There,” he said, satisfied with his work.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she broke eye contact, feeling a wealth of emotion boiling inside. “I’ll be sure to keep it clean and change the dressing daily,”

Quickly cleaning up the medical supplied scattered around them, he stood, keeping the now unsterile equipment with him. “Merry Christmas, Sister,” he told her, almost forgetting what day it was. “I’m sure you’re due for tea with the others, I’ll attend to these,”

He left her in her chambers and she let the weight of her body drag her down to collapse on her bed. Holding her injured hand up to inspect the dressing, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was a punishment from God. Falling onto her cross, injuring herself to the point she needed stitches. She sent a silent apology to the Lord for allowing herself to get caught up in a friendship with the doctor and asked for forgiveness for holding on to his son’s treasured bear.

* * *

Christmas was different this year. The only sign it was Christmas was the tree that stood in the corner of the living room, decorated in plain, paper chains; the same ones that were strung sparsely around the building. The Nonnatun’s had kept things frugal. With petrol already being rationed, their guess was that it wouldn’t be long before a nationwide food ration was put in place; especially with the German report announcing they needed to cripple Britain’s trade.

However, the harsh reality didn’t stop the merry mood of convent occupants. The Nun’s had spent their handi-craft time creating crackers, the nurses assisting with paper chains and Doctor Turner’s surgical skills came in handy to carving the turkey for dinner.

“Thank you, Doctor Turner,” Sister Evangelina praised, a little upset that she wouldn’t be the one to carve the turkey this year.

Taking his seat, Nurse Lee to his right and Sister Julienne to his left, at the bottom end of the table, he made quick eye contact with the little Nun across from him. She glanced away, looking towards Sister Evangelina, smiling at her disappointed grumbling about the carving.

“Let us give thanks,” Sister Julienne started, hushing the chatter around the table. Each occupant bowed their heads. “Bless us oh Lord for these thy gifts that we're about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

An echo of ‘amen’ encircled the group before they delved into their Christmas dinner.

Doctor Turner noted that Sister Bernadette kept her head bowed after Grace was said, her lips moving but no sound escaping; only audible to her and her God.

‘ _Lord, I pray for the Tuner family. Please grant them your peace, love and understanding, and please protect them from the evils of this world. Lord, please guide their paths and help them to make the right decisions — choices that will lead them where you want them to be. In addition to wisdom, I pray for their protection and safekeeping, especially as they weather this storm. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.’_

* * *

Sometime later after Compline, Sister Bernadette found herself reciting a prayer that would become all too familiar to her. Knelt in front of the chair he had sat in earlier this morning, she clasped Cuthbert in her hands as if she was holding on for dear life.

“Lord, I am feeling uncertain about what I’m facing. Please guide me and help me to cope with what is unfolding, please also grant me the peace that only you can give. Amid my worries, please come alongside me and sustain me. I know that I can put my trust in you. Please grant me reminders along the way, so that I do not become overtaken by the unknown. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I really just write 1900 words on a cut? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> For those who know history, we are only 7 months away from The Battle of Britain starting, but obvs have to set the scene for Turnadette ;)
> 
> I feel terrible because this is moving slowly, but my gosh, theres so much that happens in these months.  
> I also fully had all the drama planned out, but none of the slower parts, so I'm taking my time trying to feel those out.
> 
> Likewise, I'm not religious in the slightest. So I had to Google prayers - so please let me know if I get something wrong! Also forgive me :P
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! A review is always appreciated <3


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